Edward Phillips Oppenheim

The woman leaned across the table towards her companion. "My friend," she said, "when we first met- I am ashamed, considering that I dine alone with you to-night, to reflect how short a time ago- you spoke of your removal here from Paris very much as though it were a veritable exile. I told you then that there might be surprises in store for you. This restaurant, for instance We both know our Paris, yet do we lack anything here which you find at the Ritz or Giro's?" The young man looked around him appraisingly. The two were dining at one of the newest and most fashionable restaurants in Berlin. The room itself, although a little sombre by reason of its oak panelling, was relieved from absolute gloom by the lightness and elegance of its furniture and appointments, the profusion of flowers, and the soft grey carpet, so thickly piled that every sound was deadened. The delicate strains of music came from an invisible orchestra concealed behind a canopy of palms. The head-waiters had the correct clerical air, half complacent, half dignified. Among the other diners were many beautiful women in marvelloustoilettes. A variety of uniforms, worn by the officers at different tables, gave colour and distinction to a tout ensemble with which even Norgate could find no fault. "Germany has changed very much since I was here as a boy," he confessed.

"You may not care for the play," Ellison said eagerly. "You are of the old world, and Isteinism to you will simply spell chaos and vulgarity. But the woman well, you will see her I don't want to prejudice you by praises which you would certainly think extravagant I will say nothing." Matravers smiled gravely as he took his seat in the box and looked out with some wonder at the ill-lit, half-empty theatre. "I am afraid," he said, "that I am very much out of place here, yet do not imagine that I bring with me any personal bias whatever. I know nothing of the play, and Isteinism is merely a phrase to me. To-night I have no individuality. I am a critic." "So much depends," Ellison remarked, "upon the point of view.

"You haven't heard of Sanford Quest?" "Never in my life." The young man whose privilege it was to have been born and lived all his days in New York, drank half a glassful of wine and leaned back in his chair. Words, for a few moments, were an impossibility. "Sanford Quest," he pronounced at last, "is the greatest master in criminology the world has ever known. He is a magician, a scientist, the Pierpont Morgan of his profession.

"But please remember, sir," he begged apologetically, "that I had never seen the lady. I sent the cables, confidently anticipating that she would disclaim all knowledge of Mr. Bundercombe. When she arrived, and I realized that she was actually his wife, I forgave him freely for all the small annoyances he had caused me - my visit to you this morning, in fact, is entirely in his interests." Edward Phillips Oppenheim (22 October 1866 - 3 February 1946) was an English novelist, in his lifetime a major and successful writer of genre fiction including thrillers. Edward Phillips Oppenheim was born 22 October 1866 in Leicester, the son of Henrietta Susannah Temperley Budd and Edward John Oppenheim, a leather merchant. 1] He worked in his father's business for almost twenty years. He went to Wyggeston Grammar School. Oppenheim's literary success enabled him to buy a villa in France and a yacht, then a house in Guernsey, though he lost access to this during the Second World War. Afterwards he regained the house, le Vanqui dor in St. Peter Port, and he died there on 3 February 1946.

Edward Phillips Oppenheim (22 October 1866 - 3 February 1946) was an English novelist, in his lifetime a major and successful writer of genre fiction including thrillers. Oppenheim featured on the cover of Time magazine on September 12, 1927. He was the self-styled "prince of storytellers." He composed some one hundred and fifty novels, mainly of the suspense and international intrigue nature, but including romances, comedies, and parables of everyday life. He was the earliest writer of spy fiction as understood today, and invented the "Rogue Male" school of adventure thrillers that was later exploited by John Buchan and Geoffrey Household. Undoubtedly his most renowned work was The Great Impersonation: it was filmed thrice, the last time as a strong piece of wartime propaganda. Perhaps Oppenheim's most enduring creation is the character of General Besserley, . Much of Oppenheim's work possesses a unique escapist charm, featuring protagonists who delight in Epicurean meals, surroundings of intense luxury, and the relaxed pursuit of criminal practice, on either side of the law. In this book: The Great Impersonation Havoc The Pawns Count The Cinema Murder The Zeppelin's Passenger The Double Traito